Tales of a Wanderer
by Onikoneko83
Summary: More or less, the story of Nate 'NephremKa' West, based off of White Wolf's 'WerewolfThe Apocalypse' game. Though a good deal is my own material, the setting is, for the most part, based off the world created by the GM's that Nate has been involved with.
1. Prologue

Much thanks goes to Red, the first Goddess of our game, for creating the world in which Nate was born. Also, thanks to Sara, Krix, Andy, Greg, Ryan, Brad, Ann, and others, for being packmates, or being otherwise involved with the story so that I had something other than just Nate to write about. Additional thanks to Sara, for taking on the role of Satan, assuming the mantle of GM, and continuing Red's world, sans mercy and forgiveness.

Due to the fact that the story is, in a large part, a recording of what happened during our gaming sessions, seen through the perspective of Nate, the style is, at times, rather rambling and disjointed. If the storyflow is smooth and comprehendible to an outside observer, it probably means I've diverged from the game, and gone into my own created storyline (it happens at about chapter 14).


	2. Chapter 1

An unusually warm breeze wafted the brown leaves off the stairway. Whether the gust was a natural product of the night air, or whether it was caused by the still droning engines of the small jet was uncertain. Though the year was well into September, it seemed that the summer heat was not yet willing to release its grasp upon the area...at least not tonight. The jet, a reasonably sized passenger plane, disgorged a single occupant before turning and slowly taxiing down the paved runway towards the nearest hanger to be refueled. Soon, the whine of its engines faded away, overcome by the soft shuffling of fallen leaves slowly drifting across the runway as if on urgent errands only the plant world could decipher or comprehend.

Nate looked about the runway. Thirty meters to his left, a chain link fence, with a small gate a short distance away, glittered in the arc lamps that perpetually lit the small airport. Beyond this lay a road that swiftly disappeared into the night. Even farther away, a huddled mass of lights, presumably the town of Antigo itself, shown feebly, failing to bring even a slight illumination to the surrounding woodlands. A gibbous moon was reflected off a small pond to Nemida's right, but was quickly blotted out by a passing cloud. The air was heavy with the scent of coming rain, it probably would not do to stay out in the open. Tightening his hood, which had threatened to become dislodged in the growing wind, Nate set off towards the road, carrying the two large bags in his possession. A few strands of shockingly pale hair that had become disentangled from the confines of the hood were quickly tucked back into place.

Though it was deep into the night, the land about was bathed in a soft glow of the moon and the few stars that weren't engulfed in cloud cover. As Nate walked down the road, the grassy fields on either side were slowly overwhelmed by more and more trees. Shortly before the road disappeared into a virtual tunnel of limbs and leaves, Nate stopped, and looked up at the sky. Gazing through the wide expanses of space, he felt himself become slightly more relaxed. It was oddly comforting to know that, no matter what may happen to him, whether he succeeds of fails in his quest, long after his body had returned to the earth that had birthed him, the stars would still shine on, carelessly illuminating the earth. Nate found himself wondering, did the stars, and whatever may be around them, have to contend with the threat of the Wyrm? Did they even know of the Wyrm? Of Gaia? Did they care? If this world fell into the blind destructive chaos that threatened it, would the stars themselves dim, if only for a moment, in sadness? Or was the threat to mother Gaia also a threat to all the cosmos? Did the Weaver plan to tie up all the stars in the sky into a strict, predictable order? Did the Wyrm dream of devouring the bright pinpoints of light in the sky?

So many questions, yet Nate knew he must consign himself to perpetual ignorance. The best he could hope for was to possibly answer even a minute few of the questions he had about himself, about why he was here. Well, to be honest, he knew some of the reasons why he was here. He thought back to several moons in the past. Then, he wasn't in a temporate forested land. No, that was the time before his journey across the sea, a journey which his inner soul believed would lead to what he had sought his whole life.

Then, he sat on one side of the fire. Prints-In-The-Desert-Sand, his mentor, however briefly, sat on the other side. "Your spirit has been disturbed as of late."

"My spirit has always been disturbed," Nate replied distractedly, "You should know that better than anyone else."

"Yes, quite true," she replied patiently, "but I have seen a growing disquiet in you. You appear quite restless, not unusual for a Strider, but yours is tinged with something more than simple wanderlust."

"My goal, ever since I was a whelp, ever since my..." Nate started.

"...Stop," Prints-In stated curtly, raising a warning paw, "Tragic though your tale may be, your spiritual health will not be aided by endlessly reciting it, especially to one who has already heard it."

"Fine, ever since the event, you know that I have made it my goal to find the one who wronged me, who wronged my family, and bring him to justice," Nate stated.

"You cloak your words," Prints-In purred, "I know that it is not justice you wish to bring to him, you are no Philodox."

"Call it what you will," Nate growled, "it matters naught to me. As of late, though, I feel as though an opportunity has arisen, one that I cannot yet see the nature of, and every minute I spend not acting on it, it fades from my grasp. My spirit calls me, telling me there is a journey I must go on, a destination I must reason, but where that destination is, I cannot decipher."

"And you wish my help?" Prints-In asked.

"...Yes."

Prints-In thought for a few minutes. She reached a conclusion, "No."

Nate looked up, surprise showing in his pink eyes for a moment before they returned to their blank, emotionless stare, "No?"

"No, I cannot help you. Adept with spirits of the Umbra though I may be, this is an issue with your own spirit, and thus, must be resolved by you. I can, though, get you started."

Without waiting for a reply, Prints-In-The-Desert-Sand turned and rummaged briefly through her pack. A moment later, she brought out a roll of paper and spread it out on the sand. "A map of the world?" Nate asked.

"As we know it, yes," Prints-In replied, "Give me your hand."

Nate complied, and a second later, a pile of ash from the fire fell into his outstretched palm. In the middle of the ash, a single ember glowed dully. "Now," Prints-In commanded, "Drop the ash on the map, make sure it's reasonably well spread out."

Nate did so, and on a signal from Prints-In, waited. A few seconds passed, then Prints-In lifted the map and industriously blew the ash off it. Handing the map to Nate, she said, "Hold up the map between you and the fire, your spirit will illuminate the destination it wishes you to travel to."

Uncomprehending, but unquestioningly, Nate did as ordered, looking at the various countries and seas on the map as he blocked the fire's light from himself with the paper. It took a second for him to realize what he was looking at. At a single point in the map, a flickering light was shining. The light was from the fire, coming through a small hole in the map. The hole, Nate realized, was burned there, from the single live ember that had been in the ash when he dusted the map with it. "Have you found your destination?" Prints-In inquired.

Keeping track of the hole as he lay the map in the full light of the fire, Nate replied, "Yes, it is the city of...Antiga."

Prints-In looked for herself, "Across the Atlantic, I see. I can arrange for a flight there, but from then on, you are on your own."

"Is this where the one I seek is residing?" Nate asked.

"Who knows?" Prints-In replied, "all that is known for certain is this is where your spirit believes you should go."

Nate looked at the stars for a short while longer. Sighing softly, he closed his eyes and spent a few more seconds bathing in the moonlight. Antiga. He had led himself here, perhaps he could find out why. Hoisting his packs, he walked on down the road, into the forest, towards the glowing lights of the city.


	3. Chapter 2

Thud!

Nate slowly picked himself up from the motel floor. Looking down, he saw a pair of claws where his hands should be. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to relax himself. Slowly, his body regained its human shape.

"This place stinks," He thought to himself as he stood up, yawning.

Only a few days here, and already he was tired of it. Sleep was now out of the question, hell, he was lucky to have gotten the hour or so he had managed. Humans, how could they stand this style of living? It was as if they built their whole lives around pretending they were something they weren't. Nephrem...no, 'Nate', his name was 'Nate', simply because the humans around here weren't comfortable with names that weren't bland...Nate decided that this style of living was far too overrated. There was only so long he could go on pretending that the nearby stench of Wyrm was not keeping his whole body on edge, constantly on the alert for some vague, undefined, yet palpable threat, preventing him from achieving any level of real relaxation.

Looking out the window, Nate noticed the sky had gone from a deep indigo to a lighter blue hue. Putting on his sweater, and tightening the hood around his pale white hair, Nate prepared to head out into the crisp morning air. Normally, he would have preferred to wear his cloak, but while it would elicit no comment in his homeland, here, apparently such articles of clothing aroused suspicion. Closing and locking the door behind him, Nate journeyed out into the pre-dawn glow.

Sleep, he still needed it. Normally, he would sleep during the daylight hours, for practical reasons, but as of late, the stink of Wyrm permeating the motel he was in had kept his surival instincts going at full bore, preventing him from getting any rest. Now, though, the lack of sleep was beginning to get to him. Looking about, Nate searched for a location that would be both free of the smell of Wyrm, and be protected from the harsh glare of the sun. The fact that it was far too easy for him to burn in the sunlight was a large factor in his nocturnal lifestyle. It was ironic how he resembled the walking dead that his tribe was at bitter war with.

That girl though, was he mistaken? He had been certain she was Garou, but apparently she was ignorant of her own gifts. Hmm, perhaps he had misread her. Still though, in case he was right, he would keep an eye on her. Normally, he'd be content to leave others to their own fates, but with her, he saw something...well, whatever it was, it had caught his interest. When she went through her first change, he had this strange feeling that he should be there to protect her. Why? Who knew, so long as it didn't interfere with his own mission too much, he didn't have much issue with watching over her. With time, perhaps, the answers would come.


	4. Chapter 3

Knock Knock

Fisk stopped, quickly slipping the katana under the pillow. Nate sniffed the air...wyrm, no mistaking that scent. How had he missed it before?

"We've got company."

Fisk caught the tone in Nate's voice, and without a word, slowly stepped towards the door.

Knock Knock Knock!

They didn't sound like they were going to wait for very long. Morgan looked up in shock as a scream, quickly cut off, filtered in from out side. It must have been the receptionist. Nate looked back, "Morgan, stay back, this is going to get dangerous."

Whether she was going to listen to Nate or not was to remain a mystery, because at that point, the door burst inward under a heavy battering. Nemida took a quick count, Armani suits, five of them. Stinking of Wyrm, each and every one of them. Fisk was the first to react, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

The first one, the one Nate had seen in the bar, Rex or something, responded, "I told you, I'm here for the action."

"Morgan, run," Nate said.

Rex laughed, looking at Morgan, who by this time was completely lost, "Oh don't worry, we'll take care of her as soon as we're finished with you!"

Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Nate stepped directly between Rex and Morgan. In the end, it proved to be unnecessary, as Rex turned back towards Fisk, changing as he did so. The expensive Armani suit melted away as Rex grew. Irregular patches of black, mangy hair burst from his boil-ridden flesh. Without hesitation, the Black Spiral took a swipe at Fisk with a hand that had now morphed into a fetid, deformed claw. Fisk changed as well, into a much healthier looking werewolf, catching the swinging forearm before it sliced him in half and responding with a swipe of his own. Rex leaned back, wrenching himself out of Fisk's grasp, then before Fisk had a chance to react, swiped upward, catching him with a glancing blow beneath the chin.

Nate closed his eyes, briefly concentrating. It was his turn to metamorph now. The perpetually worn sunglasses seemed to melt into his face as his height increased by a factor of nearly a meter. The unnaturally white hair that extended to his neck now spread, covering the now crinoid body with a thick, white pelt. The eyes, still dangerously calm, turned so red they almost appeared to glow. Morgan backed up in shock, still trying to work out what had just happened.

Things began to move faster now. As Fisk and Rex continued to claw each other, two of the remaining four Armani suits at the door pulled out pistols and began firing wildly into the room. Breathe, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Nate managed to remain calm, ducking and diving to the side as bullets hissed through the space he occupied a second before. Reaching the bed, his claw shot under the pillow, grabbing the katana hidden beneath. The fourth Armani suit began to change, rushing into the room, directly at Morgan.

Nate growled, unsheathing the silver blade, preparing to cut the running Spiral down before it could reach Morgan. He was stopped as Rex was thrown into him by Fisk. Growling, Nate turned to eviscerate Rex, only to see Rex duck, and feel Fisk's claws graze his cheek as the latter missed the former. Breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. Nate ignored the fallen Rex, leaving him to Fisk, and turned back towards Morgan. Over the sound of the erratically aimed gunfire, the sound of a Jeep pulling up could faintly be heard. The gunmen at the door turned their attention outside, presumably firing at the Jeep.

Morgan, having been pinned to the other bed by the Spiral Dancer, now exploded, literally. Changing in seconds from a small-ish human to nine-foot tall, furred, killing-machine in the space of a second, she through the other werewolf off her. The Black Spiral tried to pick himself off the floor, dazed at the sudden turn of events. He never saw the calculated sweep of the katana Nate held. The silver blade bit deep, the crinoid fell, and did not rise again. Fisk, meanwhile, had dug his claws into the fallen Rex, and proceeded to remove a large part of the fallen Spiral's innards. Nate turned towards the door, two Armani suits left to worry about, so long as the now frenzied Morgan didn't inadvertantly attack him or Fisk.

Two quickly became one as Seras, in hispo form, leapt over the smaller one, planting a set of razor-sharp fangs into the groin of the taller of the two. The smaller turned his weapons towards Saras. Nate, seeing the danger, got ready to whip the katana at the gunman. It turned out to be unnecessary. Morgan, seeing a target to attack, proceeded to leap out the door, ripping the arms of the second gunman out of their sockets. Howling in rage, she continued to dismantle his body, piece by piece, succumbing to the Rage-inspired bloodlust. Nate did what he could to repress a smile.

Looking about the room, Nate took a quick account of what had just happened. Fisk stood over the body of Rex, watching Morgan in shock. Though blood seeped from several slash wounds, Fisk seemed alright. Morgan didn't appear to be injured from being tackled to the bed by the Spiral that now lay at Nate's feet, nearly sliced in half. Nate himself was unscathed. The mauled bodies of four Black Spiral Dancers lay on the blood-steaked floor. Four. Nate paused, "Where's the fif..."

Ka-thunk!

The sound echoed from the woods across the street. That was not a good noise. Without thinking, Nate jumped out the nearest available window. Fisk was already running out the door, the look on his face suggesting that this wasn't the first time he'd heard this noise. Morgan, already outside, was following Seras, who was up and sprinting madly away from the motel room.

Boom!

The room exploded, literally. Nate saw the quickly dispersing smoke-trail that led from the room to the woods. A rocket launcher? The fifth Armani suit, that would be it. Time seemed to slow down as Nate took account of the new situation. Fisk sprinted towards the woods, towards the source of the vapor trail. This was only half-seen by Nate, though, as the midday sun glared unforgivingly on his sensitive eyes. Seras, Nate saw, was with Morgan, trying her best to calm the frenzied werewolf down. Another body lay on the gravel outside, near the yellow Jeep. Thelvin. Two bullet holes hissed angrily in his chest as he tried to push himself back up.

Ka-thunk!

Another smoke trail sprang from the woods, and the room next to Fisk's exploded. Fisk, by this time, and reached the other side of the street. A short scream, rapidly cut off, could be heard from the woods. Nate ran towards the fallen Thelvin. Placing his hands over the wounds, he began concentrating. The air about them appeared to shimmer for a second, and when Nate pulled his claws away, the wounds had stopped bleeding.

Something gnawed at the back of Nate's mind. What was it? Something that happened back at the pub. That's where he saw Rex, right? No, that wasn't it. An hour later, as Nate drove a commandeered black Mercedes, a Mercedes that literally swam with Wyrm-scent, down the freeway, following the yellow Jeep, and the first of the Mercedes that held the rest of his newfound pack, the answer finally came to Nate. In the ear of his memory, Nate heard the voice of the bartender, "Yeah, he came here yesterday, never seen 'im 'round here afore though."

Hot on the heels of this was the mocking voice of Rex, "Ah come here for th'action. Y'kin find action anywhere, ef ye know where t'look!"

Nate narrowed his eyes. That was a bit too much of a coincedence for him. Black Spirals come to a disregarded little town in northern Wisconsin a mere day before these three, Fisk, Seras, and Thelvin, arrive, on orders from some 'Damon' figure, to pick up Nate and Morgan. Perhaps Nate's tribemates had warned this 'Damon' person ahead of time of Nate's arrival, that wasn't too much of a reach. And perhaps Morgan was being watched, in anticipation of her first change. That was reasonably likely as well. But what of the Spirals? There could be little doubt about it, they had come specifically to prevent this new pack from forming.

Nate snorted. Such a pity, he was hoping to complete his own mission without interference from the Wyrm. He still hadn't had a chance to thank the Black Spiral Dancers for saving his life so many years earlier.


	5. Chapter 4

Nate pushed his sunglasses a bit further up his nose. Despite the polarized lenses, he still had to squint because of the rays from the setting sun. A name? Why was there all this bother with a name? The pack was together, Nate knew who he was, and he had at least a passing knowledge of the others, wasn't that enough?

Hmm, Morgan, the one he knew best, yet still the most enigmatic. So new to all of this, at least at first glance. A story lurked behind those hooded eyes of hers, though. A long story, a story that Nate intended to find out about, if only to temporarily sate his curiosity. Then again, he mused, perhaps he should concentrate on hoping he was the only curious one at the table, as he was in no mood to share his own story with others. Anyways, considering what little of her past he knew, Nate guessed that she would be taken in by the Bone Gnawers. She was their type, the kind that can easily make a comfortable living off of what others would throw away. Resourceful.

Fisk? A Get, possibly. He knew how to fight, that was not in question, and he definately had good taste in weapons, even he didn't get to demonstrate whatever skill he might have with the katana in battle yet.

Thelvin. Ah yes, the most amicable of the bunch. The first to introduce himself to Nate and Morgan. He appeared to have a liking for more...modern weapons. Nate repressed a derisive snort, perhaps he was a traditionalist at heart, but he felt far more comfortable with a sturdy blade in his hands than with some glorified boomstick. Or whatever they called it, a Harkonen Cannon? Still though, best not to judge to early, the weapon was rather destructive, to say the least, and if Nate didn't remain open to new concepts, well, he'd probably be in so many pieces back at that destroyed motel room.

Seras, Nate liked Seras. There was no doubt in Nate's mind that she was a Child of Gaia. Already, though, she had proven she wouldn't be afraid to fight when the situation called for it, and the rather...unique...tactic she had used to bring down the Spiral Dancer was impressive, to say the least. Nate sighed, even if given the choice, he could never join the Children of Gaia. He respected them, but there was hatred, and a need for vengeance in his heart. A vengeance that would need to be satisfied if he were to ever...no. It was not good to dwell on that for now. Nate had...no, Nephrem Ka had followed his heart to this Wisconsin, and had taken on the guise of 'Nate Adams' to pursue the one that had wronged him. It had led him to this pack, and Nate would defend the pack with his life. He still didn't know why he was here, but until he found out, he would remain faithful to his newfound comrades...especially Morgan. For whatever reason, he found he had a liking to her. Perhaps because she reminded him of someone else...no! It was not good to think of that now, not with his new...family? No, not a family yet, he lost his family a long time ago.


	6. Chapter 5

Again, the fall to the floor managed to save Nate's sanity. If it weren't for the short drop, and sudden stop off the bed, who knew how long the dream would have lasted? Again, Nate stayed shuddering on the floor for a few minutes as he tried to reassure himself that it was just a dream, despite the fact that he knew it wasn't. It was more than just a dream, it was a memory, the memory that had driven him on this so far fruitless quest for the majority of his life. Without realizing what he was doing, he began flashing back to the dream, to the memory, seeing the silver dagger raised up, seeing it drop towards her breast, aimed at her heart. A low, feral growl came from Nate as he forced himself to stop. Constantly reliving that moment of his life, a moment that occured nearly two decades ago, would only drive him to madness. Certainly, he would seek justice for the wrong that was committed against his family, a family which he was now the last remaining member of, but that didn't mean he had to constantly torture himself with the memories of why he sought justice.

Footsteps, outside his room. It was merely someone shuffling about outside the door, probably grabbing something to drink, but it wouldn't do to have them see him in this state. With a startling alacrity, he forced himself back on his bed, the deeply pained look on his face quickly replaced with a bland disinterest. If asked, he had merely been woken up by the sounds outside, and was sitting up, wondering what they were. No one needed to know. ...well, except the council, but they had already known. That was something he would have to ask Damon about, why would a Romanian halfbreed, and the circumstances surrounding his family, be known in the far away land of Wisconsin? Theoretically, Prints-in-the-sand, his former Silent Strider guardian in the land of Khem, could have alerted the packs in this area to his coming, perhaps telling them to keep an eye on Nate.

Though the footsteps had long since vanished into silence, Nate slowly forced himself to stand up. After the latest dream, there would be no sleep for a while. Wincing as he got up, Nate looked at his left leg. The healers had indeed worked a miracle on him, but a dull pain still resonated up and down his leg, he would be limping for a day or two yet. Reaching down, Nate idly picked at the small scab with his left hand, it was all that was left of one of the three entry wounds on his leg. The scab came off fairly easily, and a drop of blood fell out, landing on Nate's finger. Sniffing the bloodied finger in interest, Nate could still feel a very slight burning sensation, as if some miniscule amount of silver was still in the blood. Looking away carelessly, Nate wiped the finger off on his right forearm.

But what was this? No sooner had the blood touched his arm than a slight, but definately noticeable, tingling sensation had started, coursing up and down his entire forearm. Looking at the strangely afflicted arm in interest, Nate was shocked to see that there was a slight change going on in the skin of the arm. Certain patches of skin began to darken, in a pattern, almost like a tattoo or marking of some sort. As they got darker, Nate realized that it was, in fact, a tattoo. Of what, he couldn't quite tell yet. Looking a bit further down his arm, to the back of his hand, Nate saw another tattoo, the symbol of the Silent Striders, but that had always been there. The darkening patch further up his arm, though, it was different. Growling, Nate wiped the blood away, as soon as his skin was dry, the mark quickly disappeared. Trying to forget about what just happened, and not quite knowing why, Nate decided he needed to go for a walk.


	7. Chapter 6

The door quietly latched shut as Nate left the apartment. It was a little past midnight, there was no need to wake anyone at this hour. Sniffing the air, Nate allowed himself to relax slightly, no sign of the Wyrm anywhere around here. Sitting on the front porch, Nate stared up into the sky, gazing upon the stars above intently. For whatever reason, this action seemed to relax him. Whenever the hell of simply living seemed too much to handle, a few minutes staring into a clear night sky put Nate at ease. Feeling a little more calm, Nate got up and decided to take a walk around the block. This time, though, he made damned sure that he was constantly checking the winds for the scent of the Wyrm. So they had gotten the upper hand before, he didn't intend to let that happen again. Seras said it was just proof that he needed to stay near the rest of the pack at all times. Feh, you'll sooner nail down fog and keep it put than stop a Silent Strider from wandering.

So, the question now is where should he wander off to? Damon's? Nate felt an involuntary shiver go through him. For whatever reason, he didn't feel at all comfortable there. Why, exactly, he didn't know...

Weaver

What? Nate rubbed his head impatiently. The little voice inside, a voice which talked even less than he did, had decided to speak up again. Weaver? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Nate tried to think, but couldn't find anything to connect the word 'Weaver' to. Something to do with spiders? But why had the word popped up when he was thinking about going over to Damon's place? Maybe he should ask her about this 'Weaver' thing? Still though, her apartment was not comfort inspiring. The machinery, the technology, all crammed together, it was all so...alien to him. Technology changed, it changed far too rapidly. It grew and expanded like a cancer. Sure, it was supposed to be doing good, but the dull pounding in his left leg, the pain which even now gave him a slight limp, gave Nate enough proof that technology was simply too risky and dangerous for his tastes.

Continuing on his little walk, Nate once again began to feel relaxed. Unlike the sun, the stars didn't burn his rather sensitive skin. The moon, though bright, didn't blind him with a fiery radiance, even if its signature metal did burn him. Nate stopped and sniffed again, no Wyrm. Good. Now almost all the way around the block, Nate came across an iron fence. Something about the way the five foot steel posts came to rather sharp points drew Nate's attention. A five foot length of steel, with a sharp point on the end...that could be quite a useful weapon. Much better than the half-rate filth that was sold at the...'mall', Seras called it. Nate blinked, it could be a good weapon!

Nate looked about. No one was around, no scent of the Wyrm could be found, and the moon, for the moment, was hidden behind some clouds. It was dark, silent, and Nate was the only one around. As Nate began to grow, white hair sprouting from his skin, changing into the form he was born with, his natural form, he reached forward and grabbed one of the fence-posts. Giving it a good yank, the steel ripped away from the frame with a slight snapping sound. Nate quickly changed back to his human form, looking about to see if anyone had seen him. The people back in the land he was born, Romania, simple people who were already used to the presence of the supernatural reacted badly enough when they saw him in his natural form. Nate could just imagine the reactions of the humans around here, people who seemed hell-bent on isolating themselves from anything spiritual, if they saw him.

Nate turned and began walking back towards the apartment, with a new crude, yet effective spear in his hands. Somehow, it made him feel far more comfortable. He now felt more than capable of taking on any Black Spirals that tried to hurt him, like they had when...when...when they...

Nate stopped. His eyes widened at the sudden revelation. The Black Spirals hadn't hurt him! Not even once! Back at the motel in Antiga, none of them had outright attacked him. Sure, the two at the door had been firing in his direction, but they were firing blindly, they weren't aiming at him. And as for the one with that Harkonan thing, he hadn't been trying to hit Nate either. Nate stood still for a few minutes, trying to work this new information out. The pair that had attacked him at the mall, they could have easily killed him at several different times, yet they didn't. In fact, they seemed to be only trying to keep him from attacking them. They hadn't hurt him at the mall, it was the bullets fired by his own packmate that had hurt him.

They aren't your enemy

The voice again. The voice in his head. This time, though, Nate had to admit that the evidence was on its side. Sure, everyone kept saying that the Spirals were evil and bad, and all that, but all the injuries Nate had sustained upon coming here were at the hands of those who try to kill off the Black Spirals. For the moment, Nate decided he should keep this to himself. What if the Black Spirals weren't the enemy? They certainly weren't Nate's enemy, in fact, they were the ones that had saved his life so many years ago. Nate began to wonder, what would happen if, instead of charging blindly into battle, Nate simply tried talking to them? Sure, the Litany said something about fighting the Wyrm at all times, but then again, the Litany also said that Garou like Nate weren't allowed to be created. If the Litany was obviously wrong about the latter, why should Nate trust what it says about the former?

Nodding to himself, Nate continued back to the apartment with a new resolve. He kept smelling for the presence of the Wyrm, but now, it wasn't to avoid it. Next time, Nate would try simply talking to them, perhaps they could answer some of the questions that no one else seemed to be able to. Why did they save his life so many years ago? What was so important about Nate that they'd rather try to capture him than kill him? What happened during the several years that were missing from Nate's memory? What was the meaning of the symbol on his arm, a symbol that only appeared when touched by blood that was drawn by silver?

Still, though, secrecy would be necessary. From what he had seen from the other Garou around here, thinking of the Black Spirals as anything less than a bitter enemy was the equivalent of heresy, and attempting to talk to them? Very well, then, Nate was good at keeping secrets, he'd had a lifetime of practice. Nate continued home, new spear in hand.


	8. Chapter 7

Fingers drummed ever so softly on the dashboard of Lena. Nate sat behind the wheel, and though his eyes remained on the sun-splashed road, his mind wandered elsewhere, far away. In his mind, he saw all of them, Fisk, Theylvin, Morgan, Seras, and even the newcomer, that spider-like thing. That was a fairly powerful rite they had done, and though Nate hadn't realized it while the rite was being performed, it had knocked his mind slightly off-track.

Initially, he had simply wanted to get this possible suicide-mission done as quickly as possible to return home. Despite his obligations to the pack, he saw this mission more as a burden than an aid to his own, personal quest. Of course, that was before the rite was performed. Now, connected to all of his pack-mates through the power of the totem they had summoned to their side, Nate found his opinions changing. Theylvin, more than a pack-mate, but a fellow Strider as well, sat slightly uncomfortably in the passenger seat next to Nate. The Striders wanted him dead? Why? Nate knew that Theylvin knew the reason, even if he were unwilling to admit it to himself. The nightmares, for nightmares they had to be, what else could have made lupus shudder so in his sleep, the nightmares seemed to be of an intensity that exheeded Nate's own dreams.

For the first time since Nate joined the pack, he felt that there was an actual, genuine need for his presence. Sure, before this, he was needed as a packmate, that was taken for granted. But now, Nate could possibly be one of the only Silent Striders in the area that didn't want Theylvin dead. Nate continued drumming his fingers, ignoring the soft, detestable country music coming from Lena's stereo. Strange, for the first time in many years, Nate began to feel that his presence was important to someone that wasn't dead. Deep inside him, he even began to feel a slight guilt, wanting to pursue his own goals at the expense of those around him. He came to a conclusion.

Normally, Nate would have to wait until the cars stopped before he could tell anything to the rest of the pack, but now, connected as they were through the spirit of the Fenrir, he could address them now. Reaching his mind out to the rest of the pack, Nate began to speak, "There's...something, I should tell the pack, about myself, and about the way I act..."


	9. Chapter 8

Nate tried to start his story, then stopped. Where could he start? Would they understand? How could they understand?

Nate shook his head, suddenly cutting off the line of communication between him and the others. No, he couldn't do it, not yet at least. There was simply too much to tell, and doing it right before this mission would only make things needlessly complicated. Exactly what could he tell them, anyways? That he was seeking the head of a Garou whose name he didn't even know? That his life was once saved by things that were considered enemies to all Garou?

No, not now. He had to be loyal to the pack, and that meant doing what he could to help complete this mission. He would put aside his own vendetta for a while longer, long enough to do his rightful part in the pack's duties. There would be time enough for revenge later. After all, he had waited his whole life to do it, what was a few more days?


	10. Chapter 9

She was...she was a...one of them...the Shadow Lords.

No, no way in the nine hells could she have been one of those murderous, backstabbing, conniving, treacherous little vermin! They killed her, like a pack of vindictive, rabid dogs! Nate saw it with hid own eyes! Yet...

The evidence in the Pentex building had been damning, and Nate wasn't the only one damned by it. In the name of Gaia, what was real? Was his mother the Garou he knew so many years ago in Romania? Or was she nothing more than a helpless experiment in the depths of that hell called Pentex? Was Nate the product of a romantic affair between two Garou? Or was he nothing more than a product of a cold, merciless breeding between two abducted participants in some unholy experiment? Who was Nate's father? What, exactly, did he see that many years ago in his youth? What of the Shadow Lord that he saw murder her? What of his sister, or brother, or whatever?

The building was abandoned, but it was abandoned relatively recently. The file had said that Nate was being tracked. Even assuming that no one kept tabs on him after the abandoning of the building, unlikely considering what Nate had heard of Pentex' hatred of leaving loose ends, he was still observed for a good deal of my life. He was observed in my childhood, observed when he saw his mother killed...observed during the years that have vanished from his memories. Were there reports on his travels? Are the missing years of his life filed away in some building, or are they now nothing more than ashes fluttering about the crater that used to be the prison of his mother?

And what of the rest of the pack? Fisk, his father was somehow tied intimately with Pentex. Seras, connected through this 'Bethany' figure, which had some relation to the malformed, yet pitifully impotent abomination back at that hellish building. Morgan, well, she hadn't revealed anything yet, but her reaction to the file was evidence enough in itself. Theylvin...well, Theylvin remained an enigma. Nate had missed something important in regards to him, Nate would have to find out what had happened. They were all connected by this one building and the files contained within. They were not together by chance. There were questions that needed to be answered, even if the answers would burn Nate more than the black ignorance he now resides in numbed him.

Until then, though, dwelling on it would surely lead to insanity. Nate could combat the crippling uncertainty by helping others...Damon for instance. Tainted with the black spiral? Nate felt like he should know what that means, but it still hovered just out of his grasp. Oh well, it it will make her better, Nate would do whatever he could. He had heard of moon-bridges before, part of his training among the Striders was a basic knowledge of rituals. Though Nate didn't know the specific ritual for opening one, he did know that once completed, they'd have a pathway to a far distant location. Excellent, new ground to tread. A perfect way to keep his mind off unwholesome thoughts.


	11. Chapter 10

Nate looked at his hands. They shook, ever so slightly. They hadn't stopped shaking in well over a day now. They weren't the only things that shook, though. His confidence was shaken. Everything he had assumed to be true had received a jarring blow. Yet despite all that, the only thing that betrayed the uncertainty he felt inside, was the barely noticeable quivering of his hands.

You failed, after years of training.

Failed? At what? The voice was back. The events as of late seemed to have given it new strength. Nate cast a brief glance about the car, making sure to keep his face in an emotionless mask. Seras was busy driving, and Morgan, sitting next to him in the back seat, seemed lost in a world of her own. Whatever the case, neither appeared to have heard the voice.

Breaking down and showing emotion. How truly pathetic.

What was that supposed to mean? Even as Nate asked himself, he already knew the answer. Last night, at the hotel. He had broken down, ever so slightly, and revealed what he knew of his past to the others. The guards against his own feelings, walls that he had carefully constructed himself, had briefly fallen. But Nate could hardly be blamed for that, right? He had found out his mother...his own mother...

Excuses. Never let others see how you feel. So long as others are ignorant of your emotions, you hold power over them.

But why? To what purpose?

You are an observer.

An observer? For what? Or whom?

You know, or at least you used to know. That is not the issue, though.

Nate sighed, giving in. Fine, what was the issue.

Showing emotion wasn't your only shortcoming in the past few days. You also allowed yourself to be struck in combat.

Nate's eye twitched slightly. They were headless zombies, there wasn't much I could do.

Feh, you moved too slowly. You could dance around them, dispatching each of them like the wind dispatches the leaves on a fall day.

I can't fight that well, Nate protested.

You can, you know how to.

Nate turned to look out the window, doing what he could to ignore the voice, whatever it was. The voice was right about one thing, though, his hand to hand skills could use a little work. Nate found his mind wandering back to the grotesque battle back at the Pentex building. He recalled himself taken down to his knees. He was mauled, but he would be damned if he were about to give in to his Rage. Opponants as pathetic as these were not worthy of that. He remembered, though, seeing a certain packmate tear into the enemy with a tenacity and ferocity that he himself had failed to demonstrate. Perhaps there was something he could learn from her. He turned to Morgan, who was sitting next to him...


	12. Chapter 11

A drop of blood stained the floor of Seras' apartment. Nate had watched it as it fell, almost hypnotized by the small, descending ball of crimson. More waited on the underside of his forearm, collecting near his elbow as if a great scarlet army were massing for a second invasion of the carpet far beneath them. The arm was sleeveless. Hell, both arms were sleeveless. The rest of his body was similarly unclothed. This wasn't to suggest that Nate himself was naked, instead a thick pelt of smooth white fur covered the majority of his hulking form.

Again, a small droplet of the blood on his elbow disconnected from the larger mass and headed for the ground below. The tiny rivers and streams of red, if followed upward from the elbow, would lead the observer to Nate's forearm, just below the wrist. Here, a the index claw of Nate's left hand slowly dug a small furrow down Nate's right arm. Though there was no one in the room with him, Nate started talking. In the deep voice of a crinos, he asked the air about him, "Who are you?"

I am you.

The claw that had been carving gave a slight jerk, digging a little deeper. Nate removed it and stared at its bloodstained tip in mild curiosity, "No, you cannot be me, for I am me. I would directly address myself in the first person. I address others in the second person. You, I address in the second person, and therefore, you are another. Thus, I'll ask again, who are you?"

I am you...or more precisely, I _was_ you.

Nate's eyes narrowed, "Then you have no right to be here. Who I am now, is not who I was. The garou I was occupied this body, but since I am here now, that must mean it is gone. In short, you do not exist."

Prove it.

Nate ignored the voice, or at least tried his best to. He needed something to distract himself, and though there were more than enough things to think about at the moment, they only seemed to give the voice more power. Nate looked down at his crinoid right arm. Though several small streams of blood coursed over its surface, it remained otherwise blank, with a thin covering of pale hair. The marking that had showed up several nights ago hadn't showed up again. Strange, last time it had showed up when covered in his own blood, but this time it refused to. Why?

It's a part of your past.

Nate twitched. "No it isn't, I don't remember ever receiving that mark."

I do, and I am you.

Closing his eyes, Nate began to change. As his hulking form began to shrink, clothes reappeared on his body. Soon, a six foot tall human stood there, clad in a hooded black sweatshirt and pants. Rummaging briefly through the kitchen, Nate wrapped a few paper towels around the wound on his right forearm. This done, he decided a walk would clear his mind. Exiting the apartment, Nate looked up at the night sky. It was a partly cloudy night, and many of the stars still shone down upon him. Nate breathed in deeply, gazing up at them, feeling slightly calmer.

Quite pretty, aren't they?

Nate lowered his head, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, "Shut up," he said.

You cannot silence me. Though you may be one of the Silent Striders, I am not.

"You are nothing but a figment of my imagination. You do not belong in my head," Nate said, emotion beginning to enter his voice.

_You_ are the one that doesn't belong. What you are now is nothing more than a construct built to appear normal and blend in with all around you. _I_ am the real one among us, the one that matters.

A fist collided with the brickwork of Seras' apartment, "Shut up!" Again the fist hit, and a third time, leaving a smear of blood, "Shut up, shut up! I will **not** be ruled by a past I cannot even remember!"

The voice chuckled as it faded away...

Have fun explaining that little outburst.

Nate looked around, and realized he wasn't the only one outside.


	13. Chapter 12

"Being Garou is not about asking questions. It's about keeping silent, doing what you're told, and keeping your head down."

Fuck that, Nate thought, if he didn't question, he might as well just kill himself right now. So, apparently showing that you have a basic intelligence is something that's frowned upon here. But, Nate guessed it was better he found this out when he did, than be kept in suspense and possibly make a much more embarrassing mistake later on.

So, they wanted him to be nothing more than a good little wolf that follows orders, doesn't ask questions, and doesn't cause problems. Fine, he could do that, at least while everyone was watching. Keeping silent, yeah, that he could definately do, it was the namesake of his tribe, after all. The Striders, heh, seems they were becoming more and more popular in the pack. First Theylvin, then Nate, now the new girl, the converted Spiral. Strange, Nate took a sort of liking to her. Perhaps it was because she had used to be part of the Black Spirals. Nate couldn't help but feel a strange sort of envy for her. She had seen things that he probably never would, no matter how much he wanted to. He could probably learn a lot from her, just by finding out what her past was like.

Still, though, the Spirals weren't the only source of information regarding this enigmatic 'Wyrm', there were other sources, no matter how unpleasant they may be. This 'Pentex' company, for instance. Nate had to smile at this. Here was something more hated to the Garou around here than the Black Spirals, and the pack was about ready to head back into their stronghold. Good, Nate had found some scraps of information on what had happened to him, to his mother, the first time they had tangled with Pentex, but that information had only inflamed his appetite.

He wanted more, he wanted a lot more. He wanted to know what happened to his mother, he wanted to know who was responsible for her death, he wanted to find him, and return the favour. More than that, he wanted to know about himself. He wanted to know what happened during those years his memory had gone blank. He wanted to know about the strange mark on his arm, the mark that only appeared during certain times...

Nate sighed. To the others, he would play his expected role, he would do as he was told and not ask questions when others were looking. But that didn't mean he wouldn't ask questions at all. There were answers close by, and getting closer. He was going to Pentex, and if he saw an opportunity to get those answers, no one, not Pentex, not the Spirals, not that Wyrm thing, not the sept, not even his pack, would get in his way.


	14. Chapter 13

It was only supposed to be a brief stop-over in New York, just a day spent wandering through the town until he could get on the connecting flight to Chicago, and from there, make his way back to a place he hadn't seen in...well, actually, it wasn't that long ago, but it felt like ages. It was only supposed to be a day-long stopover, then Nate heard the voice ripping through his mind.

Nate sat pensively in front of the public computer terminal, at one of the many internet cafe's that now littered the city. His fingers, which had spent the first ten years of his life in a bulky crinos form, still gave him trouble with some of the finer tasks, such as typing on a keyboard. Add to this the fact that he now only had one hand left with which to do this and...well, it looked as if Nate would have to work at this for a while.

One hand, yes. Nate glanced at the empty right sleeve of his trenchcoat, a sleeve that would forever remain empty for as long as the coat belonged to him. Goddamn leaches, since when did they have any right to exist? Even though he wasn't human, or even born into a human family, Nathan had still heard tales in his homeland of mythical creatures that subsisted on the blood of the living. Like most people around him, and like all the garou he had talked to, he had believed them to be nothing more than figments of an overactive imagination. Then, he received the letter.

It was shortly before Nate was supposed to take part in his second raid on a Pentex compound, when the letter arrived. It turns out, vampires are real enough, they are just even more adept at hiding among humanity than Garou are...until now. The letter was from a sept in Cairo, demanding the assistance of any Strider that had been to Africa. Nate, having spent several years there with his almost forgotten mentor before his trip to Wisconsin, had little choice but to answer the summons. Once in Cairo, he stepped off the plane, and into Hell.

The leaches were attempting to complete what they had failed centuries ago, the complete annihilation of the Striders. In the jewel of the Nile, the ageless city of buried dreams, Cairo, they had come out of the shadows and swiftly struck and Garou and kinfolk, sept and caern. The Garou, caught off-guard by an enemy whose existence they had all but forgotten, desperately rallied and called in whomever would help. The call was answered. Fera and werehyenas came in from the inhospital realms of the Sahara, briefly putting aside their differences with the Garou to face down a common enemy. Striders from around the world came, leaping at the chance to reclaim their lost heritage. Nate came for vengeance, because no other cause, no empty claims of 'heritage' and 'honour' would have inspired him to. The letter contained one simple message: His mentor, the one who had revealed to him the path to Wisconsin, where Nate had shed new light on his buried past, had been slain, then revived. She lived now as an Abomination, a werewolf cursed with undeath. Nate traveled to Cairo to do what he felt no one else had the right to do, put her out of her misery.

Every time Nate slept since those months, the images came back to him. Nights clouded with an unnatural darkness, stalking a foe whose realm was everywhere the sun wasn't. Attempting to slay enemies that were already dead, yet could never truly die, watching as those that fought along side him fell, one by one, in a hail of sharpened silver, or collapsed as the lifeblood was drained from them by multiple undead assailants. The worst one, though, was his visions of his mentor, Alera. Under the thrall blood-slavery, she had attacked him mercilessly when he finally found her, slicing his right arm off with her silver-sabre fetish. For the second time in his life, Nate had gone into frenzy. As the blood poured from where his arm used to be, he tore apart the one who had taught him nearly everything he knew with his remaining claws.

Having done what he came to do, Nate no longer had any reason to tarry in Cairo. The sword of his mentor, Silverdust, by his side, he took the next flight out of the city. He wished to return to what he was beginning to think of as his home. He wanted to see his pack again, he wanted to see Morgan. His flight went to New York, where he would wait a day until he could grab a connecting flight to Chicago. At least, that was the plan...then he heard the voice.

When he left pack Sardukar to go to Cairo, Nate had thought the mystical link that had connected him to them had been severed. Now, though, he was no longer certain. Late during the night, he had been wandering the streets of the city, when a sudden scream for help had torn through the inside of his skull. Nate had reeled, not because of the scream, for he had heard more than enough of those in Cairo, but because of the voice itself. Morgan! The link must have still been there, albeit faded. The pack was in New York?

Now, the next morning, Nate began to type, haltingly, with his left hand. He decided that perhaps he should stay here until he figured out what was going on. The words began appearing on the input field of the email he was sending, "Dear Damon..."


	15. Chapter 14

Nate looked down at the note in his hands. The 'note', as it were, was nothing more than a single scrap of paper, with a single pictogram upon it. The pictogram itself looked something akin to a stylized hammer, hovering over a broken spiral. It was the symbol of The Inquisition. Nowadays, this fanatical camp of Garou held little power outside its strongholds in eastern Europe, but this power, they clutched with a desperately malignancy. They were a slowly dying breed of traditionalists, and they knew it. It was they who had forever tainted the entire clan of Shadow Lords in Nate's eyes.

How strange, Prints-in-the-Sand was right in the end. The trip to Antigo, undertaken almost a year ago, was what had led Nate to finding resolution to his seemingly endless search. His meeting up with pack Sardukar. His subsequent splitting off and journey to the time-abandoned realm of Khem. His ordeals against the Kindred there. The loss of Prints, his former mentor, to the leaches. His return to the states, his physical maiming almost as horrible has the scars his mind had acquired during the war. The seemingly chance reuniting of him and the Sardukar pack in New York. The trip back to that blissfully ignorant land of Wisconsin. Then, while there, a little rubber ball had led him to the next step in his journey. All the rest of the pack knew was that Nate had disappeared, chasing the suddenly animated ball through the umbral realms. None of them had seen what had transpired to cause his second disappearance.

The ball was a wily quarry, without a doubt. No sooner had Nate thought he had finally got it in his grasp, then it squirmed away and vanished, leaving Nate alone in the umbra. Nate prepared to journey back and rejoin the pack, when something caught his attention. The scent was a familiar one, one he hadn't smelled since his days in Egypt. It was Kathryn. Early in the war against the leaches, she had somehow known exactly how to pierce the emotional wall Nate had so carefully maintained around himself. In the one night he knew her, she showed him that even in times of the greatest despair, comfort can be drawn from the oblivion of heated passion. That night, he had confessed everything to her, his past, the quest to find the one who had murdered his mother, the missing years in his memory. The next morning, she was gone, with only the slight hint of exotic spices remaining in the room giving evidence of her former presence there.

Many frantically asked questions the next day revealed to Nate that no Garou known as 'Kathryn' was known by any of the clans taking part in the war on the leaches. Throughout the entire war, Nate saw no sign of her, and would have doubted her very existence if the events of that one night didn't still burn so hotly within him, filling him with an emotion he had never suspected he was even capable of holding.

Now the dying embers of these emotions were doused in the proverbial gasoline, as Nate caught the scent of an exotic perfume, an archaic spice which he had not smelled since that night in Egypt. Not knowing whether to believe his senses or not, Nate followed the scent. It was her. For a span of minutes, Nate didn't know what to do, fearing that his senses were deluded, and if he were to embrace her, she would vanish. Kathryn smiled knowingly at him. Here, in the umbra, the marks of her true heritage were far more apparent. There was good reason she wasn't numbered among those who took part in the war against the leaches. Now, in crinos form, the brand of the Black Spiral showed clearly above her left breast. "Are you surprised?" she asked.

"To see you? Or to have what I suspected about you, your affiliation with the Wyrm, confirmed?" Nate countered.

Kathryn shrugged, "It doesn't really matter. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

It was Nate's turn to shrug, "If you'll allow me, I'll pretend I never discovered the affiliation. Others might call it heresy, but my views of the Wyrm have never been as...dogmatic...as most."

Kathryn smiled, allowing her eyes to assume a half-closed, sultry gaze which transfixed Nate, "You know, that night in Egypt was...memorable. But, as enjoyable as the physical side of it was, it did not cloud my memory of what you had told me. Your tale is a sad one, but then again, that appears to be a growing norm among Garou. I was intrigued about your childhood in Romania, though, since I had relations with a certain bane from the area."

At this point, a shadowy form began to condense beside Kathryn. No obvious shape was visible in the constantly shifting mists, though the occasional claw or tentacle was seen. Indicating the blasphemous form next to her, Kathryn continued, "Apparently, this bane had not only spent quite a bit of time in Romania, but also had been in the service of a certain pack of Black Spiral Dancers, the Gates of Chaos pack, I believe. Apparently, about a decade and a half in the past, this pack had made a surprise attack on a pack of Shadow Lords wandering through their realm."

Nate's heart skipped a beat. He didn't have to be told the significance of this. This spirit knew something about the events surrounding his mother's death! Without hesitation, Nate stepped forward. Speaking in the tongue of spirits, Nate addressed the bane before him, "Impart to me what you know of this, and I shall forever be in your debt."

The cloud of black mist remained still for a second. Then, a single tentacle shot out, its tip dragging in the umbral sand. For a few seconds the tentacle undulated about, then withdrew again into the mist. In the sand, a crude heiroglyph had been drawn. It was a stylized hammer, poised over a broken spiral. Nate turned to Kathryn, "What do you ask of me in return for this?"

Kathryn stepped forward sultrily. She gently took Nate's chin in her hand, and briefly passed her lips over his, leaving the taste of something exotic and intoxicating behind, "Find the one you've been seeking, I'll be watching. When you do, I'll make my desires known to you."

After that encounter, Nate decided that it would not be a good idea to return to the pack. They had their own problems to deal with, and now that the matter of his past had returned to the forefront of his mind, his single-minded obsession may prove a liability to their efforts. Of all places, he decided to return to New York. There, with the help of certain, knowledgeable Garou, he found out that the pictogram was, in fact, the symbol of a certain camp of Shadow Lords existing in Romania, known as The Inquisition. The camp, it was said, was very fanatical in its following the dictates of The Litany, enforcing death for any violation thereof. A violation, one might conjecture, like producing a metis cub, a violation such as his mother may have committed. For that, she had died at the hands of this camp.

After that, a trip to Romania became an obvious necessity. From here, Nate discovered that the camp was little more than a shadow of its former glory. High levels of tolerance between Garou proved to be an anathema to adherents to the old ways. Nowadays, the camp was so small it could not even claim a single caern as its own, and merely acted as the dominant voice in a few isolated septs. The central sept, where Nate was now camped outside, would not hold its moot for another week. Until then, Nate would have a look through some of the archived knowledge of the camp's members.


	16. Chapter 15

The moot started. It was this moment that Nate had been waiting his whole life for. This would be the moment he finally exacted revenge for what he lost fifteen years ago. The records had revealed, finally, the one he had spent his life searching for. He was here, still active, unrepetant. He would die here, unshriven. The records had revealed, also, another disturbing fact, one which troubled Nate more than he ever cared to admit. The moot was about to open.

A sultry voice from the shadows behind Nate stopped him as he was about to enter the caern, "Are you not going to even say hello to me?"

Nate stopped. He wasn't the only one present at the caern's entrance, "You take a great risk in coming here, Kathryn, they will be on the lookout for any and all Wyrm-taint."

"Fear not for me, sweet youngling," the voice replied sweetly, "I've merely come to make sure you uphold your end of the bargain."

"What do you ask of me?" Nate queried.

"A simple matter," said the voice, "I've been watching the one you have identified as your mother's killer..."

"If you wish me to spare his life, I'm afraid I will have to withdraw myself from our deal," Nate hissed venemously, "His life was forfeit the day he raised his dagger against her fifteen years ago."

"His life is of no concern to me," Kathryn replied, "But his dagger, that is something of great interest to me. The coils of the Wyrm are a mysterious thing, for the dagger is none other than an instrument I have been seeking for many a year. Strange, isn't it, that we both, meeting by chance in Egypt, find we are now seeking the same figure, one for his life, and one for his weapon. My demand is this, when you are finished with him, bring the dagger to me."

"The dagger is of no concern to me," Nate said, "It is the beast that wields it that is my interest. Once I have blotted out that stain, the dagger is yours to do with as you wish."

Without waiting for a reply, Nate strode into the caern. He had now missed the opening, and the proceedings had progressed to the cracking of the bone, the time when any complaints were to be made public. Nate sighed in relief, if he had missed this, his revenge would have had to be delayed. Now, though, it was time.

Nate felt almost giddy as he stepped forward to be heard. There was a slight gasp from some of the elders as the albino metis foreigner stepped forward to be heard. Nate waited for a moment, the elders furiously debated among themselves, trying to decide whether or not to let him speak. A single observer, though, was not quite as indecisive. A Shadow Lord got up and stepped forward. Clad in a richly feathered cloak, his ebon hair fell in richly braided locks across his face, partially covering the scarred remains of what was once his left eye, by his side hung a dagger that, even without any supernatural aid, could only be a rather powerful fetish, "What is this preposterous nonsense!" he bellowed, catching the attention of all, "This verminous, halfbreed whelp presumes that he has the right appear in front of us, in our holy caern, let alone speak as if he were a creature of consequence here? At the least, I say we throw this upstart out of this land with a smarting hide for his arrogance!"

"Silence, Paul," One of the elders warned, "You would do well to remember this is not your caern. It is the decision of the elders that the foreigner may be permitted to speak." The elder turned to Nate, "Know, though, that what you say had better be something of import. Your form is, at best, a blasphemy in the eyes of Gaia, therefore, we are expecting that your words and actions here will make up for it."

Nate nodded respectfully towards the elders. I turned towards the gathered caern, "My apologies to all for my sudden intrusion here, but there is a matter that demands my attention. A matter that will bring to light a criminal who is standing here among you. Before I reveal who it is, though, I must correct a mistake made by the elders. I am not, as they claimed, a foreigner here. For not ten miles from this location was I born. I am a native to these lands, though my travels have taken me far and wide."

Nate stole a quick glance at the silenced Shadow Lord. He seemed to have taken a sudden interest in what Nate was saying. Good, he thought, he is suspecting something, probably is being bugged by something half remembered. Let's see if I can't give him more than just a suspicion, Nate thought. He addressed the Shadow Lord, "Paul West, member of The Inquisition, do me the great honour of standing up and stepping forward."

Paul was so shocked at this that he obeyed out of pure reaction. "Good," Nate said, once again turning to the rest of the sept, "I'm sure you are all aware of some of Paul's accomplishments. While certainly not on the level of some of the more legendary Garou, his life is certainly not something to smirk at. I, personally, was more than impressed upon hearing one particular story about his exploits. I'm sure you've heard it before, about how, fifteen years ago, he and his pack fell victim to a surprise attack by the Black Spirals, and how he, being the only survivor, fought them off single-handedly."

There were nods of assent within the crowd, even Paul was now preening himself slightly. Nate smiled, then continued, "...thus, it is with regret that I inform you that that is all that was...a story, nothing more. You see, he never fought the Black Spirals. No, after they killed his packmates, he begged them to spare him, and for some unknown reason, they did, taking one of his eyes as compensation. But that is not why I'm here, I'm here to expose the reason his pack was ambushed in the first place, the events leading up to it..."

Paul, finally having gotten over the turn of events in Nate's speach, roared angrily, "You ungrateful little beast! Do you think I'm going to stand here and listen to you impune my name with your baseless accusations?"

Nate rounded on Paul, letting a bit of the emotion that bubbled within him for fifteen years to the surface, "You will stay silent and listen, you cowardly little vermin!" Paul shut up out of pure shock, Nate continued, refusing to let up now that some of the anger was flowing out of him, "I know exactly what happened that day, fifteen years ago, because I watched it all happen. I saw you kill Linda West, I saw you beg for mercy from the Black Spirals, I saw it all...father!"

Nate heard murmurs start up immediately within the crowd. Holding in his rage for a few moments, Nate turned back and addressed them. As much as Nate would have liked to kill him then and there, he reminded himself that it would be so much more satisfying to expose him first, "You heard me correctly. He is my father, as ashamed as I am to admit it. It wasn't until I examined the records of this area that I figured it out. Paul West, and Linda West, two Garou that got along far too well to be simple packmates. Why don't you ask Paul why, exactly, he was patrolling in that exact area when the Spiral Dancers came? Why don't you ask him why Linda, the Garou who supposedly meant most to him, disappeared several weeks before this? Why don't you ask him why her corpse was found among the mangled corpses of his packmates, with naught but a SINGLE DAGGER WOUND TO THE HEART?"

Nate now turned to the elders, "I present to you, esteemed elders of this caern's totem, the evidence that that abomination standing there is responsible for bringing me, a metis, into this world. An offense punishable by death, if I remember correctly."

Nate brought out a small fetish of his own. It looked like little more than a locket, but the recognition on the elders' faces told him all he needed to know. They knew it was a lineage-chain, capable of identifying the direct kin of the Garou it is dedicated to. Without further pause, Nate tossed it to the feet of Paul West, where it immediately began to glow. The elders, once again, conferred quickly upon themselves, "By the evidence before us, Paul West has been found guilty of breaking the Litany. As such, the law requires that he be put to death."

Nate stepped forward again, "If it pleases the council, may I suggest the manner in which his execution be carried out?"

The elder nodded, "It pleases the council. Let us hear your suggestion."

Nate continued, "This waste of Garou life is responsible for the death of my mother. I request permission to end his life myself, in one on one combat."

The elders hesitated, not quite sure of whether or not to assent to this. "Of course," Nate continued, "Should I fail, the death of a metis is certainly not something to be frowned upon here, is it? And then you can execute him in your own time."

Another conference among the elders. Paul's expression drifted constantly between fear and rage. A decision was reached, "Permission granted, the duel shall take place here, now."

Nate smiled, as did Paul, "At least I can wipe my unfortunate mistake off the face of Gaia before I die," he snarled, withdrawing his dagger.

"Father, you've tried to bury this event for fifteen years, I've been trying to bring it to a resolution, let us see who is the more dedicated between us," Nate replied.

Though only having one arm, Nate wielded the scimitar with frightening skill, easily parrying the swift strikes from Paul's enchanted dagger. A circle of Garou quickly formed around the two, watching in amazement as the silver blades flew around each other in an ever fluctuating spiral. "You have some skill," Nate panted, "but I can see that it has already rusted around the edges, when was the last time you've been in a real fight, you pathetic cow?"

"My whole life is a fight against the Wyrm," Paul gasped back through gritted teeth, "and little wyrmlings like you, the hideous offspring of it."

"So, since you're my father, and I your offspring," Nate rejoined, "does that mean you are admitting you are the Wyrm incarnate?"

Paul roared in inarticulate anger. Nate saw an opening and went for it. Suddenly, Paul jumped back. Holding the dagger in the air, he shouted "Sunbeam!" From the heart of the dagger came a blinding flash. Nate stumbled backwards, rubbing his eyes. Paul, grinning, moved forward for the kill. Nate, sensing the danger, countered. Swinging the silver scimitar blindly in front of him, he shouted, "Glitterdust!"

A gray cloud seemed to burst from the fetish-sword and envelope Paul, who immediately dropped to the ground, scratching himself in agony. His entire body was covered in a fine sprinkling of silver dust. He looked up in surprise as Nate stood over him, scimitar raised in a grim finality. Seconds later, Paul's head rolled to a stop several feet away.

An hour later, the revel had begun. Though Nate usually took part in these, seeking desperately for an emotional release that ever eluded him, he left the caern early. Almost as soon as he emerged from the sept, he caught the whiff of that exotic scent which plucked so well at his emotions. Following it into the surrounding forest, he found Kathryn in a shadowed glen. "I believe you wanted this," Nate said, tossing the dagger that originally belonged to Paul at her feet.

"No," she replied, standing up and sidling over to Nate, "I merely needed the dagger...what I want, is something entirely different."

The clouds drifted off, and the newly waxing crescent moon bathed the two passionately embracing Garou in its sickly green light, as if the Wyrm itself had blessed this union.


	17. Chapter 16

"Ah, going to fight the leeches, eh?" said the smirking Bone-Gnawer from behind his newspaper shelter.

"What?" Nate said, genuinely confused.

"Whorl, I heard ye talkin' to that travel-lady. Said ye were takin' a trip to Chicago," came the reply.

Nate sighed, obviously this would take some patience, "And what does that have to do with leeches?"

It was the bum's turn to look surprised, "Where 'ave you been? Everyone who's anyone, and quite ah few who ain't no one in particular, 'ave heard about the war in Chicago."

Nate shrugged, but he couldn't deny that he was indeed interested, it had been quite a while since he had to deal with the undead, "I've been pretty busy lately, haven't had much time to keep up on the news. What's going on?"

The Bone-Gnawer giggled, nudging a paper cup next to him with a shoe that was more duct-tape than footwear. Nate obligingly threw in five dollars. "Whorl, it's them vampires, innit? Ever since that hullabaloo down in Africa, seems all sorts of bloodsuckers have been makin' themselves known. Even a few of 'em here. 'Parently, some bigwig-leech callin' himself 'Prince Lodin' had all o' his cronies killin' off all the garou in Chicago. So now, anyone who can spare the time is headed over there to teach 'em why that's a bad idea."

"Good to know," Nate said as he walked off, "good to know."

Undead in Chicago? The world was indeed a curious place. Nate shivered at the memories. The last time he had dealt with vampires, they had turned his former mentor into one of their own. In the end, he was forced to take her life...or unlife...himself. Not before she took something of her own, Nate thought, looking at his empty right sleeve. Best not to dwell on that. There were other things to think about, much more inviting things. Like Kathryn. Heh, it was a full week now, since that night. Nate found himself keeping track of the days. They had found something that night. It wasn't exactly a wholesome thing, but the temporary, pleasurable, numbing oblivion of it left Nate with a surreal sense of completeness, and at the same time, a longing for more.

The next morning, Nate had woken up alone. She had, again, left. There was a single scrap of paper curled up in his hand, "Go home, both your future and your past await you there."

Home? Nate guessed that meant Wisconsin, again. He was born in Romania, but that was no longer his own. All his known family had died there, one of them by Nate's own hands. Wisconsin, though, that was where he had found the closest thing he had to a family. Pack Sardukar, the time they spent together was brief, but strangely enjoyable compared to what Nate normally dealt with. He found himself wondering more and more how they were doing...if they were still alive, that is. So, after booking a flight back to New York, and finding money in rather short supply, he planned a trip back to Wisconsin that would involve a lot of running.

His musings were interrupted by someone shoving him bodily into an alley. Colliding ungracefully with the brick wall, Nate spun to face his attacker. A silver switchblade pressed into his throat. "Let's take a quick walk," said a black man in a blacker trenchcoat. Behind him stood a rather large, rather feral looking beast of a person whose only purpose appeared to be providing fist-shaped exclamation points to the black man's orders.

Nate complied, calmly looking for a way out of the situation. The duo led him to a congregation of alleys well out of sight of any streets. Once there, the black man kept the dagger to Nate's neck, "You tread on our territory without announcing yourself. You go around askin' questions like you're someone important. You've got some explainin' to do, halfbreed."

"So what do you want?" Nate said, looking down his nose at the man who was half an inch away from slicing his throat off.

"Some answers, boy," the man replied, "What's a halfbreed like you doin' on Glasswalker territory? Why are you snoopin' around here, not even having the decency to announce yourself? And most of all, why does Celia say you've got a bit o' Wyrm-taint hanging off you?"

Nate sniffed. Yeah, he had noticed the taint hanging off him since his night with Kathryn. It had faded over the week, but it wasn't fully gone yet. Apparently 'Celia' wasn't here though, otherwise she would have noticed that this alley was rotten with Wyrm-stench, and it was getting more powerful. They weren't alone here.

"You should have brought Celia along with you," Nate said calmly, "because I doubt you'll take my word on this."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" said the black man.

"You chose the wrong alley to push me into," said Nate.

A gurgling noise behind them drew both their attentions. The bigger garou, with a look of terminal surprise, feebly groped at the silver blade sticking out of his chest. There was a nasty sucking noise as the Black Spiral who wielded it drew it back out and kicked the dead garou aside. The black man removed the dagger from Nate's throat and quickly lunged at the Spiral Dancer, dagger at the ready. He stopped dead as Nate reached out, grabbed the back of his trenchcoat, and yanked him to the ground, hard. The black man looked up at Nate in disbelief as Nate said, "...and I really don't take well to being threatened, or being called a halfbreed."

Nate turned to walk away, but a shadow detached itself from the wall in front of him and another Black Spiral stepped out, grinning. The black man let out a short scream that was cut off quickly with a gurgle. The Black Spiral standing in front of Nate held a six-foot chain, with spikes on the end. The spikes were silver. He didn't look like he was going to move out of the way. "I don't have any quarrel with you," Nate said, "I'm not like other garou. In fact, this is the second time you guys have saved my life. Let me past and you won't have any trouble from me."

The first Spiral chuckled, "That's all well and good, even if it's an unconvincing attempt to beg for your life. See, the problem is, then you'd become one of those...whaddaya call them, Tony?"

"Loose ends," Tony said.

"Yeah, that's right, loose ends. See, we can't be having those around here," said the first again.

"So, the fact that I stopped him," Nate said, indicating the smaller of the two rapidly cooling corpses, "from killing you means nothing?"

"He thinks you couldn't of handled him yourself, Vince," said Tony.

"Maybe I should show him why that's a bad thought to be having," said Vince.

Nate narrowed his eyes, "If that's what you want," he said, "Just remember, I offered an easier way out of this."

Vince lunged forward. Nate saw the arc of the blade and easily avoided it. Again, Vince lunged, and again, Nate dodged. Nate frantically tried to work out a plan in his head. The alley was too small to shift into Crinos effectively. It was also a depressingly obvious fact that Nate was unarmed. He had to be lucky with every one of his dodges. Vince only had to be lucky with one stab. Again and again the Black Spiral lunged forward. Nate was quicker, that was becoming obvious, but Tony was now moving in to join the battle. Nate wished he had Glitterdust with him. But carrying a scimitar on public streets tended to give a very bad impression, and so it was two miles away in his hotel room.

Vince lunged forward again, this time off-balance. Nate's single hand shot up and caught Vince's wrist, squeezing tight. Nate planted a swift kick to Vince's midsection, knocking him back into the brick wall and winding him. Before Nate could take advantage of this, though, a steel chain whipped around his throat and yanked him backwards. "He's all yours, Vince," Tony growled, holding the chain tightly.

Vince lunged forward again, this time at an immobilized Nate. There was the metallic clashing sound of silver striking silver, and once again, Vince was sent careening into the wall. Nate looked down in surprise. Glitterdust sparkled in his hands. He didn't know how it happened, but Nate put two and two together rather quickly. He had fervently wished for Glitterdust to be there, and it was. Spinning the sword around, he made a motion as if to sheath it. Instead, though, it went smoothly through the gut of Tony. The chains around Nate's neck loosened, and Nate spun around, the silver blade describing a cruel arc through the air. Tony's head tumbled to the ground. Nate turned to face Vince.

A few seconds later, and Vince was thrust against the wall a third time. This time, Glitterdust was embedded in his breast. Nate withdrew the blade, and has Vince fell to his knees in front of him, said distractedly, "I warned you, I don't take well to being threatened."

--------

Two hours later, and Nate was nearly finished with the preparations in his hotel room. His travels hadn't been a complete loss as far as gaining new knowledge went. If a garou had to get somewhere fast, and transportation-inventions of the Weaver were not available, there was a Rite that could provide much of the same results. Nate closed his chant on a sharp cadance. Suddenly, his mind filled with a vision of the road. Nothing but the road. His legs twitched spasmodically. Giving in to the urge, Nate began to run. He ran down the stairs of the hotel. He ran out into the street. He ran westward. He would continue running, under the effects of the Rite, for almost a week, switching to lupus when practical, until he reached his destination, the city of Chicago.


	18. Chapter 17

"Milwaukee's...gone?"

"Yep, that's about how it goes...shame really," the Gnawer replied solemnly. Of all the Garou in the Chicago area, it seemed that the Bone Gnawers were the least inclined to treat Nate like dirt.

Then again, most other Garou treated Bone Gnawers like dirt, so perhaps the Gnawers themselves were treating Nate like dirt, which technically would be treating him like an equal.

"I'm not surprised you haven't heard about it yet," he continued, "It would've been big news, if this whole undead business hadn't suddenly cropped up over here."

"But...how? How did it go?" Nate asked, still somewhat incredulous.

"Spirals, mate. Was the Spirals that dunnit," Came the reply, " 'pparently they had summin' workin' on th'inside. Gave 'em all the info they needed, and pow, took out the entire caern."

This gave Nate pause. He hesitated slightly, did he really want to know this? "...who? Do you know?"

"Never met the gal," The mangy looking Garou told him, "But she's dead now, a right fittin' fate for 'er if I do say so myself. Some Weaver-fanatic...Danya...Denise...aw, somethin' like that..."

"Damon," Nate said, half to himself, "Her name was Damon."

"Yeah that was it, Damon, like I was saying, though..." The rambler continued, but Nate had ceased to pay attention.

They were gone? The caern was gone? It wasn't the first time Nate had to face the fact that when he went wandering, things changed. There were many places he called 'home', insofar as a Strider could possibly call anywhere 'home'. And though the homes themselves may change after he returned from some journey, up to this point, they had never completely disappeared. And what of the Garou that shared the home with him?

"Were there any survivors? Do you know their names?" Nate asked, interrupting the Bone Gnawer's monologue.

The other werewolf became testy, obviously disliking the interruption of his story, "What do I look like, mate? A newspaper? If'n you don't care for my story, jus' go off to the suburbs an' ask some o' them yourself."

"I suppose I should," Nate replied, "Is that where they went?"

The Gnawer was taken aback. Obviously he had not expected Nate to take his offer seriously, "Er...ye have 'eard the story 'bout the undead, right? You sure you wanna go to th' suburbs? They'll probably round ye up and send you off t'battle. That's why I'm staying nice an' safe here in Gary."

"Is that where the survivors went?" Nate persisted.

"Well...yeah...some, but..."

"Then that's where I'm going," Nate said with finality, turning to leave.

"They'll have ye fightin' the vampires in town boy! Mark me words!" The Garou called after him.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Nate replied as he strode off.


	19. Chapter 18

"Don't your kind usually travel in packs?"

Nate cast a wary eye towards the alley the voice came from. He had finally made his way to Chicago, seeking some sign...any sign of the Milwaukee garou. All that he was told was that any in this area had been sent into battle against the leeches in the city.

'Go home,' Kathryn had told him. Great, home was gone. From what he heard, the sept was destroyed, taken over by the Spiral Dancers, set up by Damon, someone he had known from a long time ago. So now, Nate had gone into the city proper. He didn't care about any war with the the undead. He didn't care about the wants and needs of some vacuous 'Garou Nation'. He had a past to find. He had asked Kathryn, the Spiral Dancer who had proven invaluable in avenging his mother's death at the hands of his father, for help.

A gap in his memory. Sometime, so many years ago, between when he saw his mother die, and the time he became the student of Prints-in-Sand, his mentor in Cairo, something happened. Something that spanned the course of several years. Something he had no memory of. ...Yet it was something that had left a voice, a nagging voice, inside his head. A voice which occasionally made demands of him. Demands that involved seeking out the Wyrm, and, contrary to the Litany, not destroying it. Rather, examining it, trying to see if there was a way to cure its affliction without the need of violence.

To put it bluntly, the little voice inside his head demanded breaches of a majority of Garou traditions and laws. It was annoying, to say the least.

It was fairly persuasive as well. The Wyrm, allegedly, was the penultimate font of all that was wrong with the world around him. According to any Garou he asked, anyways. But if this were so, why wasn't he convinced? If anything, the Garou seemed to be its own worst enemy. Its pointless traditions, blind obedience, mindless attacking of anything 'of the Wyrm'. Something wasn't adding up here. The most open-minded werewolf he knew was, in fact, a Black Spiral Dancer.

The sum result of all this was his presence in Chicago tonight. So now, he warily eyed the alley that the voice had come from. The city, from what he heard, was infested with leeches, who had apparently decided they really didn't like the Garou in the city. Hence the aformentioned war. Presumably, the owner of the voice was, likewise, a leech.

"Not all of our kind travel in packs," he replied, "Of course, maybe my pack's just around the corner. Or maybe they're right behind you, sneaking in to end your unlife while I distract you."

The voice from the darkness replied, Nate could almost hear the smile on it, "I doubt it. I've been watching you for the past half hour. You don't have the look of someone who's part of a pack."

Nate shrugged, he'd be damned if he were going to let this bodiless voice fluster him, "Pack or not, it doesn't really matter all that much to me. The more important question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"Well," mused the voice, "If I were one of the fools participating in this pointless blood-hunt declared by that short-sighted Prince Lodin, I'd probably attack you. As it stands, I'm not going to attack you for someone else's reasons, only for my own."

"I have my own," Nate said bluntly, then without warning, leapt towards the dark alley, summoning Glitterdust to his hand in the process.

The sword swished through empty air. Nate felt a slight breeze as the vampire leapt over his head and landed in the street behind him. "And that would be?..." he asked, unsheathing a silver dagger of his own.

Nate twisted and kept on the offensive, unleashing a flurry of strokes at the undead, "Survival."

The vampire wielded the dagger skillfully, parrying the blows. There was a preternatural quickness in his movements, not too much of a surprise, considering his undead state. "You definately seem well suited for it, survival that is, you've lasted up until this point."

Nate felt himself losing some ground. The vampire became slightly more reckless in his attacks, forcing Nate on the defensive. Still, Nate was able to deflect every thrust and slash, "Are you implying that I won't survive past this point?"

Growling, Nate pushed forward again. The thin blade of silver described a thinner red line on his arm. But the sacrificial gambit paid off, and the vampire was once again placed on the defense. The two of them engaged in an elaborate dance on the dark street, the occasional flash of silver highlighting the intricate movements between them. The spinning, parrying, thrusting, and riposting spiralled in an ever tighter circle. Were it not for the fact that both were fighting for their lives, it would have looked almost like an erotic dance. The crescent moon glinted off two spinning cascades of ivory hair, themselves surmounting the two lithe bodies as they danced closer and closer together.

As suddenly as it had started, the dance stopped. Nate's sword, Glitterdust, lay on the shoulder of the vampire, its blade a mere twitch away from decapitating the undead. Likewise, the vampire's dagger sat poised at Nate's chest, the sharpened point seeking to plunge into the heart beating beneath. Their faces, as if determined to match the blades, were mere centimeters from each other. Nate's increased breathing, due to the flow of adrenaline and rage, rather than exhaustion, formed a start contrast to the complete lack of respiration from the undead. Nate caught a whiff of the charnel scent of forgotten tombs. It was repulsive, yet strangely exciting at the same time. The lips of the undead, close enough to kiss, or bite off, moved to speak. Nate caught a glimpse of the sharpened fangs beneath. "To be honest," The vampire replied,"I can't say for certain. We seem...well matched. May I know your name?"

A tense moment passed between them. An unspoken agreement was reached, and both leapt away from each other at the same time, landing on opposite sides of the street. "My name is Na..." Nate hesitated, something didn't sound right with that. He realized what it was, "My name is Nephrem Ka," he said, using his given tribal name.

"Nephrem Ka?" The vampire mused, "The forgotten pharoah?" Nate started, the vampire knew the origins of the name.

"And you?" He replied.

"Viktor," The undead replied, "Viktor Abd-al-Nitocris."

"Son of Nitocris?" Nate said, surprised. It would explain how Viktor knew what his name meant. Though very few, human or otherwise, knew the hidden history of Khem (or Egypt, as most called it today), those who did knew of what happened between Queen Nitocris, and Nephrem Ka.

"So, I'm assuming you're from Cairo as well?" Viktor asked.

"Yes," Nate replied, "It's been a while since the war there. Though I suppose," he said, holding up Glitterdust, "It's never too late to clean up a few loose ends from the war."

"A pity I was never involved," Viktor replied, "I left town quite a while before it started."

Nate paused, then lowered the blade. Viktor didn't seem the type to lie to avoid a fight. "So what now?"

"Your arm appears to be bleeding," Viktor said, licking his lips slightly.

Nate looked down. The dagger had given him a small cut, though its silver nature meant that he now had a blood-soaked arm. "May I?" Viktor asked, "The fight has left me feeling a little thirsty."

Nate was blank for a second, then suddenly realized what the leech meant. "Are you serious?" He asked incredulously.

"I promise, I'll take only that which has already bled out," Viktor replied.

Nate considered his options, "If I feel your fangs, your head will be removed," he said.

There was a sort of perverse thrill, Nate had to admit, of having the blood licked off by a vampire. To be honest, it didn't feel all that sickening. Nate found himself wondering what it would feel like to have the fangs pierce his skin, his vitality slowly ebbing from him, succumbing to this kiss...

His musings were interrupted by Viktor, "You do taste rather nice...if a bit gamey. Seems your tattoo, though, has gotten blood on it."

Nate jumped. Tattoo? It was as if an invisible hand had reached out through a year of memory and grabbed him. The tattoo, on his left arm. The one that had appeared to him then, and hadn't appeared since. Now Nate realized why. Last time, it had appeared when blood had coated his arm. Despite numerous experiments of trying to get it to re-appear, though, it had faded from view. Permanently, Nate had assumed. Now though, it had reappeared. Nate knew why now. The blood was the trigger, his blood was the trigger. But that alone wasn't enough. It was the silver, as well. Blood drawn by silver.

Nate realized his arm was still being held, and that Viktor was staring at the mark on his hand with an intensity that mirrored his own. "I guess it makes sense..." he mused, "I mean, you do fit the details given."

"What?" Nate said, once again completely lost.

"I have an...acquaintance, if you will," Viktor said, "A werewolf, older one. Some kind of tribal shaman. Anyways, long story short, I ended up owing him a favour. Well, 'bout a fortnight ago, he gets a visitor, another werewolf. Now, the shaman, he's not much to look at, half-hairless, slightly deformed, had a nifty little tattoo on him, though, a wicked looking spiral."

Nate hmmpf'd. A Black Spiral Shaman, it figured.

"Anyways," Viktor continued, "One night, he gets this guest. Now, she was as comely as he...well...wasn't. She simply tells him 'Nate is coming into town. He's ready to make the trip now. Give him the information you collected, oh, and give him this,' And she hands him this package with an envelope tied to it. And so, after she's gone, the shaman rummages around, finds his own envelope, and he hands the lot of it to me. He tells me, 'Look for the one missing an arm. Give him these. If you doubt you have the right one, mark his arm with silver, and a sign shall be given."

Nate looked down at the package that had been withdrawn from the depths of Viktors trenchcoat. "...Thanks," he said, more than a little overwhelmed.

"Oh, and there was one more thing," Viktor said, "Something I want to give you myself."

Before Nate could stop him, he found himself locked in a kiss with Viktor. For a moment, he considered struggling, then gave in and returned the kiss. There was a very brief, delightful pain as Viktor's fangs grazed his lower lip. Viktor slowly parted from him, his body rapidly turning to mist. His voice, hollow and indistinct, reached Nate's ears, "You really do taste good."

Nate stood in the street for a few minutes more, absentmindedly licking the blood off his lower lips. "Vampires," he said.


End file.
